Part of the odd thing about getting older is the way that your tastes develop. I'm going to write about myself here, because it's all I really know, and I'm going to relate that to my expectations when I was much younger and the way I perceived the world. If that's okay with you.

Looking back at my late teens and early twenties I remember getting terribly excited about things. These were new things, and they were things that encapsulated the Zeitgeist or whatever, and they merited my attention and to some extent adulation, but certainly I felt a desire to share them with all, and on occasion sundry.

The shock of the new hit me then. I was, of course, in a position where I was surrounded by people of my own age, but from very different backgrounds and who were therefore evangelical about different things. I could pick and choose, and with such a wealth of stimuli available, how could I fail to be stimulated.

Somewhere in there I found my own taste, and I found it to be made up of little bits of other people's taste, but that was fine because the final synergy of the whole thing was mine and therefore honest, true, and so on and so forth.

Then I hit the workforce. Although I didn't really realise it at the time, I was now surrounding myself with the downtrodden scum of the universe, and although I made some great friends and opened myself to some new influences and new excitement, my exposure to new stimuli faded away. I guess that I figured that my taste was now pretty much fully formed, and everything from here on in would be either my type of thing or not my type of thing based on how well it conformed with what my idea of my type of thing was.

Now, fast forward to the last few years. Art.

In the last few years I've seen a lot of art. I've seen some of it twice. I've been told that Yves Klein's Blue paintings are excellent, dismissed them as wank, and moved back slightly from that position. I've seen giant Rothko's and been utterly unmoved. I've learned about Henry Miller, and Rachel Whiteread, and Emin, Hirst and that crowd. I've bought work by contemporary Scottish painters, and commissioned work by an Irish painter. I've seen a hell of a lot of stuff, I've been told what to like, and for most of the time, I've liked it because it's basically pretty good. That's the popular stuff.

However, because I've seen so much Art, I'm surprised to discover that I've got a quite particular taste that doesn't really conform with any mainstream view and I'm going to tail off here and come back and finish off this thought later, I think.

We are spending the weekend with e and boff and their three performing monkeys - Hen, Dill and Sim. So far, so good. Their home borders on chaotic, with e doing a frankly excellent job of juggling the needs and demands of those around her. Mr Twinky and I are trying to balance helping in the kitchen, keeping the children amused and not broken, and finding some space for ourselves from time to time to remind ourselves that this is the weekend.

Around this time of year I like to be reminded of how long I have known e and boff. I met boff on - I think - the 10th of August 1986. Although I can`t remember the exact date, I can remember the precise circumstances, and who I was with at the time. That`s not to say that he was particularly memorable - he doesn't have three arms or two heads or anything like that, but it was one of those weeks where friendships are formed that can last another eighteen years, despite multiple migrations, changes in circumstances and generally life happening in the middle.

I couldn't specify the date when I met e, but it would have been 1987. In fact, I suspect that I knew her for a long time before she made any serious impression on me. This annoys me, as I was later to discover that she's fiercely intelligent, practical, and independent. She also has a splendid surreal streak, which she doesn't get to use enough. And she doesn't look a day older than she did when we met.

I like being here. I enjoy their company, I enjoy the air of mild chaos that pervades everything - although I know that it would drive me mad after a few days. Nonetheless, I'm with two of my oldest, dearest friends. Fantastic way to spend a weekend.

The day after Christmas is a Sunday. It's also the first day of the sales. Saks has 50% off anything before 12 Noon, and it's chaos. Spot a beautiful pair of suede shoes, originally priced at $300, now going for $120. for a moment know what it is like to be a shoe-addict, but fail to buy them due to the incredible chaos going on, the lack of staff, and the way that they all disappear at 11.50.

Decide to console yourself in Starbucks, but fail to find one. See people with cups and grow frustrated until you realise that they're coming out of Trump Tower.

Trump Tower is vulgar. It's like being back in China. A block or two away is Louis Vuitton, which looks fantastic but is full of really unattractive luggage.

It's snowing lightly, so go for a buggy ride through Central Park, led by the slowest horse ever, hosted by an Irishman. Hold hands under a rug and think how romantic it all is. It's getting cold.

Wander into Prada. Find it full of effete homosexuals and women with an attitude. Dislike them. Track down one who explains that yes, a blue dot means it's in the sale, and it's 50% off the marked price. Find a shirt for Mr Twinky that fits him and looks great on him. Buy it. When asked "did anyone help you with this purchase", say no. That way nobody gets commission. Vow never to shop there again, as their preferred shade of green is slightly remeniscent of hospitals when you were five.

Stressed by the anti-service in Prada, wander over to Armani, where your homosexual salesman is much nicer, friendlier, and - you get the feeling - wouldn't mind joining you in the fitting room. Buy a nice jacket to cheer yourself up.

Find an Italian place for pre-theatre dinner. The service is appalling if you talk to any of the waitresses, but great if you approach the owner or his son. The food is fantastic. I can give you the address, if you want.

Broadway. Not the show that you wanted to see, but Phantom of the Opera. Get there to find your tickets are missing, and it's ten minutes until the curtain goes up. In the stramash of the lobby, note with incredulity that the ogre in the box office is writing you out a credit slip. Be about to scream blue murder when the woman who got her tickets two minutes previously returns the two additional tickets she was given by mistake.

Despite being in the second row of the balcony, have a view obscured by a tall person. Thoroughly enjoy the performance, in particular the lighting, the orchestration and the singing, but feel that the show is let down by the actual tunes. Wonder if it'll be better at the cinema.

But it probably won't be.